That London Afternoon
by doctor-spacetime
Summary: John Watson must learn to deal with the death of his best friend. Three years pass.    Sort of spoilers for 02x03
1. The Pouring Rain

It was over.

Sherlock Holmes was dead, and it was over.

John Watson sat in his homely little chair, staring blankly ahead as he felt heart beating slowly in his chest. How he ached. How his heart felt like it was going to rip, to break, into tiny pieces that would never find their way home. His chest felt hollow. His soul felt hollow. He felt as if his entire being had been ripped away and there was no way to find himself again.

His best friend was dead.

John could feel the smallest trickle of a tear run down his cheek as he sat in that chair, in that apartment, on that street, in that city. The city of London which even now was rebelling against the very idea that Sherlock Holmes had been anything but a crazed psychopath with delusions of the highest order. Yet no matter what people told him, John refused to doubt Sherlock – though doubt would perhaps be the easiest place to take refuge amongst the storm that spiralled around him.

He had been to see the therapist. Oh yes, the therapist. Only a few days ago, on a rainy London afternoon.

It was funny, the idea of time passing. When one loses someone so dear, so very close to the heart, it is almost as if you expect time to simply stop. After all, what use is time when the essence of life has vanished? What use is the spinning of the world when your world has fallen from beneath you? Yet pass it did, and spin it did, and so it came to pass that on Thursday afternoon John sat in that office once more.

"Why today?" she asked.

She needn't have. John could see every one of her emotions written on her face, every unasked question. The story of her troubled youth, her secret addiction. Her secret lover. He almost smiled to himself, knowing how proud Sherlock would be.

_Sherlock_.

Thunder rolled gently in the background as the rain fell. His heart beat, fractionally faster than it had before.

_Oh, Sherlock._

"Do you want to hear me say it?"

"It's been eighteen months since our last appointment."

John stalled, trying to escape the inevitable. Hoping against hope that she wouldn't make him utter the words out loud.

"Do you read the papers?"

She nodded. "Sometimes."

"And you watch the telly." He started to tremble. Ever so slightly. He looked down, no longer wanting to look her in the eye. No longer wanting to see what he read in her every movement. He paused a moment, catching himself, before continuing. "Then you know why I'm here. I'm here because – "

_Sherlock. Oh god. Sherlock._

His heart was racing now, pumping adrenalin into his veins even as he tried to steady himself. Why was she making him say it? Why was she breaking him again? Even as she leant forward to ask the question, he knew that she was one of them.

"What happened, John?"

One of them. She didn't believe him – thought he'd been sucked in just like everyone else. Perhaps she thought that in breaking him, she could fracture his belief in Sherlock Holmes. But of course, she didn't realise that it was already fractured beyond belief.

He didn't know what he was doing in that damn office.

Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply.

_Oh, Sherlock. _

As he opened his eyes, a tiny moan escaped his lips, and he struggled to mask it with a cough. And still the rain poured.

She was looking at him. Staring at him. Nodding and smiling and pressing him onwards.

"Sherl – "

_I can't do this. I can't – I can't do this._

He breathed deep again and cleared his throat quickly. Closing his eyes, shutting out the world, he tried once more.

"My best friend. Sherlock Holmes – " His voice cracked, but he forced himself to finish." – is dead."

And the army doctor, with nerves of steel and a heart which had been burnt from the inside out, finally broke.


	2. Another Day

Some people say that the first days are the hardest.

They aren't.

Some say it's the first few weeks, when you struggle to keep a semblance of routine in your everyday life when secretly you're breaking down inside.

Wrong.

Of course, there are others who swear to high heavens that once you get past the first year, everything is smooth sailing. Just get past the first year; past the anniversaries and birthdays, past the meeting and greeting of old and forgotten friends. If you get past all of that, then life will fall back into place and everything will be fine.

It never is.

John Watson sat in his homely little chair, aching. How he ached. How he _still _ached.

Life had not 'fallen back into place.' Life had not become simpler, or easier, or quieter, or even louder. Life had simply carried on without him, leaving John in his old apartment facing an empty black armchair for the three hundred and sixty-seventh day.

It had taken him precisely a month to return to 221B Baker Street, after a particularly harrowing argument with Harry had made him realise that he wanted nothing more than for his old life to resume once more. For that first month, Lestrade had been on the phone almost daily, asking John for help with various cases thrown at him by the Yard. He feigned interest in John's answers, but the small seeds of some nagging doubt fed to him by Moriarty would forever leave a bitter taste in their friendship. The calls slowly died off.

Mycroft Holmes made sure to keep an eye on John whenever he ventured from the flat, using his vast network of criminals, colleagues and cameras to watch him. As time passed, this network became more and more unnecessary. John Watson rarely left the flat.

He began to invent stories, to invent games. He would speak out loud and pretend that Sherlock was there, just out of reach. Just out of sight. He would complain that they had once more run out of milk, that they were out of bread and jam, that he didn't know why he put up with the lazy creature that was Sherlock Holmes. When Sherlock didn't answer, John told himself that he was in one of his moods, and that he would reply when he was well and ready.

But every now and then he would catch himself. Every now and then he would sit on the edge of his bed and slowly open the bedside drawer. He would pull out the military-issue gun – the one that he should have handed back many, many years ago – and slowly stroke the barrel. Up and down, up and down.

It was almost cathartic.

In the days after Sherlock's death, he had toyed with the idea of using it. But he knew Sherlock would never approve. It was too simple. Not enough of a challenge. And for some reason, John could not bring himself to die like James Moriarty.

He would picture those wide, unseeing eyes and that terrible grin, and place the revolver back in the drawer.

_Another day_, he would whisper to himself. _Another day._


	3. Day 367

**AN: ****I hope you're liking it so far - sorry for the angst and feels that may be approaching (or have already occured). This is a shorter update but I thought I'd get it out there for you. Please review and let me know what you think!**

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><p>There were days when he spoke aloud, and he would imagine the soft whispers of Sherlock's reply. Sometimes they were nothing more than a memory, dredged up from the crevices of his mind. Other times they were louder, more real, and John would spin around thinking that perhaps Sherlock was alive. Perhaps Sherlock was standing behind him. He never was.<p>

_Oh, Sherlock._

John had long ceased believing in miracles. In fact, he had long ceased believing in much at all. He would wake in the mornings, shower, and sit down with a cup of tea. He didn't read the newspaper, didn't speak to Mrs Hudson. He would simply sit in that old chair of his and stare.

The nights were the worst. In the beginning, he didn't sleep. After a time,, grief gave way to exhaustion, and exhaustion gave way to restless nights and untucked bedsheets. He began to turn to medicine to ease his nights. First, over the counter drugs. Then, something stronger.

Yet still John had managed to keep the vast majority of his emotions in check. He had dealt with them the only way he knew how – by ignoring them. But it was on this day, this three hundred and sixty-seventh day, that John's anger, and disbelief, and sorrow, and pain, all became a great and overwhelming sadness.

He sat on the bed, holding his head in his hands, breathing deeply. He could feel his chest begin to sink lower to the ground, a tightness burning around his collar. He felt the tip of his nose moisten ever so slightly, and his eyes become a little fuller than before. He allowed them to widen fractionally, as if thinking this would hold off the emotion for even a second longer.

_Oh, Sherlock._

The tightness moved up his throat so that now he feared that if he spoke even one small word, everything would fall out of him and it would never stop, until all that remained would be a withered shell slowly disintegrating in the wind. His entire body began to ache as if he were holding upon himself the weight of the entire world.

And perhaps, at that very moment, he was.

You see, that's the terrible thing about sadness. That if, even for one second, you acknowledge it, you can never forget it. The more you try, the worse it gets. The more you try, the more you begin to lose control.

He could feel himself slipping away. His eyes burned and tears began flowing, slowly. It did nothing to relieve the pain in his chest, the utter torture of his heart. The sadness. He took one deep, shuddering breath, then another, and another.

After a time, the tears gradually began to stop, and he rubbed his face with his hands. Then, as he slowly lay on his side and pulled his knees up to his chest, he whispered that name once more. And then, finally, he allowed himself to go steadily, uncomfortably, peacefully numb.


	4. Survival

**AN: Another short update but I figure it's better to have frequent short ones that infrequent long ones. Plus I have a short attention span.**

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><p>John Watson had surivived the war. He had been shot, beaten, broken and bruised. Yet he had decided to survive, and to live, and so he had.<p>

This time it was different. This time, he had no reason to survive. No reason to live.

He never realised how much he valued his friendship with Sherlock until it was too late; of course, you never do. He missed the easy camaraderie the two had. The simple, quiet life.

Well, quiet for the Baker Street boys.

_Oh, Sherlock._

It wasn't always easy. John could remember losing his temper many a time. He struggled giving up a social life as soon as Mycroft commanded it. He lived in a permanent fear of the so-called 'danger nights.' Sometimes it was Sherlock's pure lack of tact in social situations, his lack of understanding when it came to pure and simple human emotion, that drove him to despair. Yes, at times like those John would think of giving it all up.

But of course, he didn't. He let those thoughts flick through his mind quickly before reminding himself of one simple fact: that he truly did love his life. It was exciting. It was everything he had ever wanted.

Two years had passed since Sherlock's death.

Two years of nothing.

John Watson still sat in his chair in the seven hundred and thirtieth day, and he still ached. Every second of every day, he ached. For him, nothing had changed. The world had moved on, sure. But he was still alone.

He had never been one for depression. Or at least, not after he met Sherlock. And yet here he was, sinking deeper into a chilling numbness that threatened to engulf him entire. He was no longer sad. He no longer felt tears warm his cheeks as he lay awake at night. His heart no longer froze at the mere whisper of the name. Perhaps because he was slowly getting over his grief. More likely because it was his entire body that was frozen, and the one man who could thaw him was... Well.

It was in this third year of mourning that John began to lose his mind. He would see the flash of a coat out the window, a man walking down the road wearing a deep blue scarf. Every now and then he would awaken in the middle of the night and see the curtains flicker as a man stood, illuminated by moonlight. It was always Sherlock Holmes. But as soon as he blinked, the man was gone.

Sometimes he would be making a cup of tea when he would hear footsteps behind him. The slightest gasp of breath. The smallest breath of wind on the back of his neck. But he would turn around, and there was no one there.

It was day seven hundred and thirty seven. And Doctor John Watson was finally going mad.


	5. Apparitions

It was Wednesday. The one hundred and fifty sixth Wednesday, to be exact. Three years to the day since the Great Detective had Greatly Died. Three years since he had taken a part of John Watson and left him a broken man. Three years of missed dates, empty beds, closed doors.

Yet still, Sherlock was everywhere he turned.

On this Wednesday, the fire was roaring as, in typical London fashion, heavy rain pelted the windows. John had woken barely an hour ago, and was still only half dressed when the doorbell rang. Padding softly down to the entrance, he was confused; no one visited anymore. No one wanted to.

Opening the door, he slowly blinked as a familiar face looked down at him.

"John."

_Sherlock._

His heart raced and a small tear threatened to run down his left cheek. Adrenaline raced through his body as a tiny smile crept onto his face, crinkling his eyes. He slowly lifted his right hand, fingers outstretched, reaching toward the face of the man he had so admired. So missed.

_Oh Sherlock._

His hand paused mid-air. He stopped. Nodded once. And turned to walk back up the stairs.

No one was more surprised at John's reaction than Sherlock Holmes himself. He had expected physical violence or, at the very least, a handful of choice words. But there was nothing. John simply never spoke. At first, Sherlock thought it was shock. A side-effect of finding a dead man standing on your doorstep. But the silence continued.

Where John would once watch contentedly as Sherlock played a fine concerto, he would now stand abruptly and walk out the front door, slamming it behind him. Some nights he wouldn't return for hours. Seeing eyeballs in the fridge no longer appeared to upset him – he seemed to look straight through them. Indeed, he seemed to look straight through Sherlock himself. The doctor had not once touched him, nor said a word. His eyes would dilate, almost imperceptibly, any time they were less than a foot apart from each other.

A normal man would have noticed that something was deeply wrong.

Sherlock Holmes, of course, was no such man.

In certain moments, he revelled in this newfound silence. In others, he despised it. Despised himself, for what he had done to his dearest friend. His only friend. The friend who was once again walking with a limp, sleeping with a gun under his pillow, and drinking a fifth of scotch every night just to flee from the nightmares that threatened to drown him and engulf him and never let him be.

Yet over time, he became accustomed to it. He no longer brought cases home, preferring instead to meet with Lestrade at the Yard. He would solve the impossible, decipher the improbable, and return home to a noiseless house.

Nothing had changed, yet everything had changed.

He missed the once easy rapport the two had once shared and, if he was being honest, he missed having John on cases with him. But he understood. He had broken their friendship and was not deserving of a reconciliation.

He was simply grateful that John never spoke of it.

John, on the other hand, had finally given in. The hallucinations, the apparitions. They happened nightly and were inescapable. He had long since given up speaking aloud to the ghosts that haunted his soul. For a while, they had spoken back. But soon, even that stopped.

Insanity was a lot easier than he had anticipated.


End file.
